The Closer You Get, the Further I Fall
by sasssywolf
Summary: Set after Season 2. All is well in the pack until Stiles discovers something life-changing. Meanwhile, the pack has other business to attend to.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: I live in England so I really don't know a lot about California, hence the ambiguity about the location. What is the US equivalent of a doctorate?! Okay Americans probably don't eat cottage pie but it's what I would feed a wolf pack. Unbetaed- I'm a grammar nazi so please let me know if you spot any mistakes.

Chapter 1

It's a Sunday. There are muffins in the oven, rising, respiring, exhaling lemony fumes. Sunday, the day before Monday, before work, school, _life _continues. Citrus washing-up liquid picks at his hands as he cleans. It's the perfect calm before the storm, but nobody is aware that _right now _Stiles is scratching his armpit absentmindedly while laying the table- hot coffee, orange juice, fruit- and it's an inconspicuous movement that garners no attention. Just a little scratch that Stiles doesn't notice now and won't notice when he scratches it another three times today.

A crash breaks the sunshine silence as a baseball smashes through the window, sending glass into the sink; the scattered fragments throw rainbows dancing across the walls.

Two irresponsible teenaged werewolves burst through the door, becoming a rolling mass of muscle as they wrestle each other to the ground.

"_Dude, _seriously, what did the window do to you?" Stiles admonishes them as one as they stood up, one guilty-faced, the other barely holding back a smile.

"It's not my fault somebody can't _catch" _mutters Scott sheepishly.

"It's not my fault somebody can't _aim" _laughs Isaac, a grin twisting his face with glee.

Stiles bestows a withering look upon the reprobate wolves and turns back to the oven just as the timer bleats. By the time he turns around with a tray of steaming muffins, the entire pack has piled into their kitchen.

After college, the pack rejoined and bought a house together in the suburbs of Redwood city, close enough to Beacon Hills that they could visit home and Stiles could keep an eye on his dad, and close enough to Stanford for Lydia to complete her doctorate in Math at Stanford. It was a two-storey, five-bedroom house, painted yolk-yellow. Stiles had fallen in love with it when he had visited with Derek and an annoyingly perky estate agent six months ago:

"Best behaviour, alright?" demanded Stiles as they drove to the house. They were meeting the estate agent there, and he was worried that Derek might scare the poor woman. A red-eyed glare confirmed his suspicions. Derek had had a phone conversation with her a few days previously; she had assumed that Stiles and Derek were a couple and had gone on to 'insult' him repeatedly.

Stiles recognised the house immediately from the photos online as it drew into sight.

"_Oh._" he breathed, "it's _perfect. _I can just imagine-"

Derek, perceiving that Stiles was about to embark on a ramble, interrupted with a growl, "it's a monstrosity. We'll have to repaint."

With a sigh, Stiles resigned himself to the fact that Sourwolf was going to be difficult as they parked and got out. A blonde in an alarming fuchsia suit greeted them with enthusiasm. ...

It was their domestic haven, removed from the bloodshed of their tumultuous high-school years. The pack had depended on Stiles to research the packs local to the area; the swathes of national parks along California's coast allowed for many packs to coexist with only the occasional conflict, mostly they left each other alone and even had complex truces between various parts of each pack: they had interbred and evolved over the years. Stiles had been worried that all the existing packs were so tangled and interwoven like a child's messy knitting project that they may turn against any newcomer in the area. However, further research had exposed an ancient truce between the Hale family and several of the other California packs. Thus, it was safe and quiet.

Until now. The pack are gathered around the marble worktop: Scott, Isaac, Lydia, Jackson and Allison, all smiling and laughing together, except Derek, whose grim face is the only shadow in the glowing kitchen.

"What's wrong, Derek?" asks Stiles.

"It's nothing, really," says Scott, dismissively.

Derek growls quietly and the pack collectively rolls their eyes. Derek fills Stiles in: "there are tracks in the woods that aren't human and aren't werewolf; the Gage clan reported some odd kills in their territory and the creature seems to have migrated closer to us."

"Is it a threat?" Stiles queries.

"The kills were pretty small but they were all drained of blood. They never saw what it was so it's more unfamiliar than dangerous."

"So what, it's a vampire rabbit or something?"

The pack laughs, the rich sound it expelling any gloom from the room. As they do so, Stiles scratches his armpit again, again without noticing.

After breakfast, Lydia joins Stiles in the kitchen to prepare a gargantuan cottage pie for that evening, alternately cooking and translating some skeletal fragments of text from ancient tomes found in the Hale library. The rest of the pack heads outside to sunbathe, relax, fight and play.

"Why would they even write these in Latin," mutters Stiles, "who would bother taking all that time with a dictionary to put this into this goddamn language when English would have been perfectly good? I mean I get it, it looks cool and we know Hales are into the whole mysterious creepy werewolf shit but-"

"_Because _it would take all that time for anyone else to translate it. What if a human found it? Besides, Latin is a wonderful language," Lydia retorts.

"What human in their right mind would go anywhere near that place?" Stiles snickers, moving to stir the vat of mince; as he does so, his clothes ruche uncomfortably under his arm, prompting him once more to scratch at it. Lydia's eyes track the motion but she thinks nothing of it.

"Well, you and Scott for starters, and generations of other idiotic boys daring each other. That house is as creepy as any cemetery."

The day continues without incident. In the evening, the pack gathers in their living room with bowls of cottage pie; Stiles, Scott and Allison sat on the central sofa, Lydia and Jackson on the smaller sofa to their left and Derek and Isaac on separate beanbags. They settle in to watch a film. Stiles chooses: Star Wars: A New Hope, ignoring the groans of the less nerdy members of the pack (all of them but Scott).

"C'mon guys this movie is epic." Stiles attempts to defend himself but to no avail. He throws his arm behind Scott, scratching at his underarm again as the credits roll.

By the time the film finishes, the pack is half asleep and decides unanimously to sleep on the floor, dragging down blankets and cushions. They do this often, just curl up together in a warm tangle of arms and legs, heads on torsos, their aggregate body heat making their communal bed an inferno. Stiles is back to back with Scott, who is curled around Allison, whose head is resting on Lydia's stomach, who is using Derek as a pillow. Jackson has nestled against Lydia and Isaac is encircled by Derek. Together, they feel safe and fall asleep almost immediately, ignorant of the small nub under Stiles' arm that may be the beginning of something much more sinister...


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Thank you for reviews!

Chapter 2

A piercing ringtone cuts through Stiles' dreamless sleep as the entire pack wakes at once. In the second it takes Stiles to peel open his eyes, Derek has picked up his phone.

"Hello?"

Derek's face falls and immediately he turns his face away from the six pairs of eyes that are watching him intently. Stiles feels the three werewolves tense and his mind spins with potential theories which spurt from him before he realises: "has there been a disaster? Have they found a long lost Hale to come kill us all? Have they dis-"

"Stiles." Derek throws his name like a cannonball which stuns him into silence. "There's been a killing, a human, not quite on our territory but the Gage clan are worried. Isaac, Scott, you're coming with me to help them investigate and track the scent." His tone was authoritative but reassuring as he continued, "Jackson, you stay with these three and Stiles, for god's sake stay put. We'll be back before dawn."

Quietly and quickly three wolves leave the house; Stiles barely notices. He feels vaguely as if he should be worried about them, but sleep sweeps away his concerns and envelops him.

The next time Stiles is conscious he is tossing and turning, flying but falling through what feels like Hell: a red abyss of flames licking at his skin, he cries out and-

"_Stiles!" _a face swims before his eyes as, disorientated, he tries to sit up and somehow headbutts the floor. Stiles throws himself upright, drenched with sweat, his head still spinning and comes face to face with an irate strawberry blond.

"Go back to sleep, it's 5am." in one fluid movement she lays back down and rolls into Jackson's arms, his face nestled into the back of her neck.

Stiles can't disengage his brain long enough to sleep: it is trying to drag him back down to the infernal depths of his mind. Sighing, he disentangles himself from Allison and Lydia and creeps from the room, earning a discord of tutting from his disgruntled friends. Stiles makes his way upstairs to the shower and strips as he walks into the room. Facing the mirror, he checks out his abs- disappointing- and nods approvingly at his nether regions. His hand moves automatically to scratch at his armpit and then he sees it.

There's a lump. It is angry and red and the size of a loveheart. Stiles stares at it, pokes it, can't believe it. Panic bubbles at the base of his stomach and threatens to engulf him. Trying to calm himself he steps into the shower, forgetting to lock the door, and lets the scalding water wash over him. The panic dances around him and attacks in waves. Finally, he gives in and sinks to his knees, choking, heart in his mouth, with the effort of breathing regularly. He turns off the shower and stumbles out and walks straight into a solid wall of muscle.

A scream dies in Stiles' constricted throat as he realises that _Derek Hale_ is in the bathroom and Stiles is naked. Completely naked. A strangled yelp makes it past his epiglottis as Derek covers his eyes and thrusts a hand-towel at him. The mortification purges the panic from his body as a blush paints him red from head to... toe.

"Are you okay?" Derek speaks, his voice nuanced with worry. Stiles thinks of how far he's come as Alpha, from an awkward, accidental leader of an awkward, last-minute pack, to this magnificent, caring being whose deep green eyes are staring into his and-

Stiles is suddenly aware that the square of towel is doing nothing to hide his- er- situation.

"Yep. Fine thanks. Never better." Stiles garbles words as he flees the room, keeping his behind to the wall as he skirts around Derek. He runs from there, horribly conscious that his pale behind is entirely bare. Not until there is a door and several walls between his naked ass and Derek is he able to breathe again. Stiles throws on clothes haphazardly, selecting a loose pair trousers over his usual jeans in a futile attempt to hide his erection. A knock on the door makes him leap out of his skin: "Stiles? It's no big deal, really, we've all seen Jackson naked and-" Stiles opens the door and pushes past Derek, avoiding brushing him with his crotch. Ignoring him completely, he runs down the stairs into the kitchen, pouring Lucky Charms into a bowl with uncoordinated fingers, spilling a rainbow of lurid wheat products- they're probably cardboard engineered with sugar and marshmallow- across the table. He scoops them up and shoves them into his mouth, softening them with a swig of milk just as Derek enters the room.

"I'm sorry, I heard you panicking as we came in and came to check you weren't drowning. We're pack it's natural-"

"_Please, _can we leave it? Besides I have lunches to prepare." Derek sighs, takes a banana, and leaves. Stiles wolfs down the rest of his cereal and assembles five sandwiches, wraps them and lines up four of them along the breakfast table, thrusting the fifth into his bag as he leaves the house. Stiles always leaves first; he likes to get into school and get some marking done in the peace of his office. Next will be Isaac and Scott, who will take their sandwiches and walk to the vets in town where they both work. Jackson will slope off to whichever building site where he is currently working on as he is a project manager for a construction company. Lydia attends lectures sporadically throughout the week and spends the rest of her time in the library or shopping. Lastly, Allison will leave: she teaches part-time at the pre-school and only does afternoons, allowing her penchant for late-night archery practice not to interfere with her work.

Stiles worked as a history teacher at the local high school. He liked kids, and the research he'd done throughout his college years on werewolf legends had inspired him. The syllabus, however, dictated that he would teach the Civil War to his class. As much as he loved history, it was dismal to teach such a dull period to an unenthusiastic class of teenagers. But, Stiles being Stiles, he often veered off the subject, just to elicit some sort of response from his impassive class.

"Can anyone suggest why there might have been a lot of horror stories circulating during the Civil War?"

Thirty pairs of eyes lifted their gaze from the window, their fingernails and thin air to focus, suddenly awake, on Stiles. One hand flew up and Stiles smiled, happy to have broken the Monday-morning monotony. He gestures for the kid to answer.

"Fear." he says, eyes gleaming, and for a second, Stiles thinks they flash red.

"That's right. During wartimes, stories like this run rife…"

The lesson continues without incident but Stiles can't forget the red eyes of the teenage boy, looking at him as if he knew more than he should have.

When Stiles gets home, Derek is out doing whatever he does and the rest are still out at work. He heads to the dining room to read; as he sits down to do so he finds himself bothered by something, something he's forgotten- oh. He throws off his t-shirt and stands up to look in the ornate mirror. It's still there. He had forgotten about it, ignored it until now.

A scream erupts from him as Lydia walks in.

"What. Is. That."

"Nothing, I swear, just-"

No objection is enough to stop Lydia when she is determined. And boy, was she determined to drag him to the doctors _immediately. _Fortunately for Stiles, she did phone ahead, only to discover that no appointments were available until tomorrow.

"_Fine," _she hissed, "you're safe for now. But if you even think of going to work tomorrow then-" she didn't need to finish her sentence. An acidic glare was enough to make Stiles bend to her will.

"Just don't tell anyone. It's probably nothing." Stiles protested meekly.

With a nod and a swish of her fiery locks, Lydia left.

The next day, Stiles phoned in sick and told the pack that he was taking a day off to do research with Lydia. He made himself believe it and hoped that his heartbeat would convey that. Derek quirked an eyebrow but left without question. Perhaps he trusted that as long as Lydia knew what was going on, he didn't need to know.

Stiles was never very good with waiting or silences, so he took every opportunity to fill them. Sitting with Lydia in the waiting room, he looks around and, not wanting to read any of the posters- 'MENINGITIS KILLS' 'DO YOU HAVE A URINE INFECTION?' 'FIVE SIGNS OF TESTICULAR CANCER'- he tries to talk to Lydia, but is _shushed_. This leads to an uncomfortable ten minutes in which he switches his legs over and back, ties knots in the strings of his hoodie, clicks a ballpoint pen in and out until-

"Mr. Stilinski?" his name. He jumps, shocked into stillness. Lydia rolls her eyes and elbows him to stand up and follow the doctor.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Authors Notes: Sorry this is chapter is short but I'm gonna be crazy busy over the next two weeks so I'll see how I go with writing this. Follow me on tumblr for updates: sasssywolf

Teatowel in American? Do Americans have mashed potato? I'm sorry I'm just too British.

Stiles follows the doctor dumbly, legs numb. He looks behind, half expecting Lydia to follow. She gives him a disdainful look, rolls her eyes and refocuses her attention on her magazine.

"So, Mr Stilinski, what seems to be the problem?"

"I uh, have this thing. A lump."

The doctor barely balks at the word. Practice and learnt indifference, Stiles thinks. Abandoning words, he pulls his t-shirt off and shows him. He has a look, pokes it a bit and says: "We'll need to do a blood test and biopsy to diagnose this. There is every chance that it may be benign, but I have to tell you that it may be something more serious. Have you had any other symptoms, such as a fever?"

"Um, yeah I woke up yesterday with a fever." Stiles gulps. "What's a biopsy?"

The doctor explains but Stiles doesn't take it in. His mind is already racing with thoughts of his mother. Images of her flash before his eyes as he stumbles from the room: her, happy, alive; her, broken, sick; her last fragmented smile. Lydia doesn't say anything, just helps support his weight and takes him home.

Stiles sits dumbly on his bed and is grateful for the few hours he has before the pack return in which he can process and prepare to hide this information from the pack. He locates his favourite picture of his mother, removing it carefully from its hiding-place and placing it reverentially in front of him on his bed. Wiping tears from his eyes, he remembers when she first started getting sick. Stiles was only eight, and had just been diagnosed with ADD. The Sherriff's medical insurance didn't cover Stiles, so they had to fork out hundreds of dollars on his diagnosis and treatment. When his mom got sick, they could barely afford the diagnosis, let alone the months of treatment afterwards. Stiles' dad has only just finished paying off the medical bills, eight years later. His mom had tried to put off getting diagnosed but she kept getting weaker and thinner. Stiles knows she used to wake up most nights with a temperature. Once she started treatment she was hardly any better. The photo Stiles is gripping shows her a few months before she died: her body, even wrapped in layers of jumpers, was noticeably thin; her hair was just a few short wisps which clung to her scalp; but across her face was a beaming smile that drove hope to his heart.

Stiles is so oblivious of time passing that he jumps when he hears Allison, Scott and Isaac entering the house and slamming the door behind them. He composes himself and heads for the kitchen, where he finds Lydia thumbing through a recipe book.

"I fancy a beef casserole for tonight, what do you think?"

"Sounds great," Stiles tries to smile and almost manages. Lydia hugs him and puts on music. Together, they chop vegetables and meat and gradually, Stiles' spirit is lifted and he is laughing at Lydia, who is messing around with onions, holding them up to her chest, when Derek enters the kitchen. Derek laughs too, quirks an eyebrow, picks up a peeled carrot and considers it before wrapping his mouth around it and- biting it.

"Hey, we need that," chides Stiles, smacking Derek's ass with a teatowel as he swaggers from the room.

That evening at dinner, the pack tucks in to a steaming casserole of chunky beef, mushrooms, carrots and baby onions with mashed potato. When they've all finished, Derek calls a pack meeting; they clear the plates and reassemble around the dining-room table.

"Stiles and Lydia, I never filled you in on what happened with the Gage clan. Basically, the pattern of attacks suggests something like a predatory mammal mutation-"

"It's a vampire rabbit, I was right!" Stiles is silenced with a glare.

"So the human it killed was elderly and probably won't be reported missing. However, the Gage clan phoned again earlier and apparently it has killed again. This time, it was a small boy and the town is getting suspicious. We're gonna go out and help them track it down and kill it, whatever _it _is."

"Who's going?" says Jackson, eager not to miss out on the action again.

"Well, there's only five of them so they need all the help they can get. The kill was made further away this time, so there's no danger staying here." He turns to Stiles, Allison and Lydia, "do you three feel okay with being left?"

The three of them nod; they trust Allison's hunting skills, Lydia's chemical weapons and Stiles'.. wit.

"It's decided then. We'll leave tomorrow morning."

With that, the pack separates: Scott and Isaac to do the washing-up, Jackson and Derek to the basement to work out, Allison, Stiles and Lydia to the living room to watch The Voice. Amid arguments over which judge's dress is better, Stiles feels overcome with fatigue. He offhandedly agrees with Lydia and excuses himself.

Stiles is asleep the second his head sinks into his pillow. He dreams disjointedly for a while, semi-obscured snapshots of his mother in the garden intersperse with the clear image of his father, head in hands with a bottle of whisky at his side. He tries to focus on the memory of his mother but it's like grasping at straws and it slips through his fingers as he slips into a deeper, darker sleep.

It's very early in the morning when Stiles wakes, crying and screaming and sweating, to find Derek sitting on the bed beside him, trying to soothe him.

"Hey, you'll wake the others like that," he whispers, mopping at Stiles' brow with a towel.

Stiles struggles upright and sits for a while, trying to match his breathing to Derek's, a little disconcerted by how close they are. Derek is looking at him with concern as Stiles heart rate begins to climb again. Panic itself is stretching its claws over Stiles' body, ready to pull back, seizing his heart and crushing it. He closes his eyes as it begins to suffocate him, and is surprised to feel Derek's arms around him, his breath hot on the back of his neck and his heartbeat rhythmic against his back. It calms him, slowly but surely.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong, I-"

"Don't lie to me Stiles." Derek's eyes stare into his and Stiles can see the disappointment and hurt. "We're pack, we share everything."

"I know, I know. It's probably nothing so there's no need to upset everyone for no reason."

"I'm not suggesting you tell everyone, just your Alpha."

Stiles resents Derek using his authority like this and refuses to submit.

"No," he says, and rolls over to go back to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Notes: Sorry it's been so long and sorry it's short; I thought it was better to give a shorter chapter than wait until I finally have enough time to do something longer!

Stiles awakes alone. He fumbles with the items on his bedside table to find his watch, discovering a note scribbled in a familiar handwriting: "pack business came up- have taken S, I and J back to deal with it- will be back in a few days- D". He squinted at the illuminated face of his watch, only to find that it was 4am. Derek must have snuck out within the last couple of hours. With that thought on his mind, he falls back to sleep, and this time he sleeps for hours, a deep sleep that engulfs him in a silence that seems abyssal until-

"STILES"

Of course, it would be Lydia who woke him from the best sleep he'd had in weeks and, as Stiles blinked blearily awake, was threatening him with a pillow to the head.

"What, Lyd, please don't tell me you've broken a nail or-"

"You have an appointment. Now" she hissed.

"Shit I forgot." Stiles fails to disentangle himself from his sheets as he attempts to clamber out of bed and promptly headbutts the floor, earning him a snort of derision from Lydia as she expertly extricates him herself.

"You have two minutes." Then, with a swish of fragrant hair, she was gone.

Stiles feels queasy. For someone who dislikes needles and hospitals, he felt he'd done pretty well not to throw up during either the blood test or the biopsy. Lydia had left him to go to class with a thump on the shoulder and an unsympathetic, "man up." The doctors had told him that it would take a few days for the results to return from the lab, and he would be called in for an appointment whether the results were good or bad, and not to worry and everythingwillbefineand-

Stiles shakes himself. He can't keep panicking every time he thinks about this. It _will _be okay. He can't help thinking of Derek's strong arms encircling him, making him feel safe. What was that anyway? Stiles reasons with himself: it's a normal pack thing, he gets that close to Scott, Lydia, even Jackson. But then, why did it feel like more than that?

The rest of the pack is still away when Stiles gets the phone call. He's at home alone; Lydia and Allison are out shopping. Stiles grits his teeth and agrees an _urgent _appointment for the afternoon. He can't sit down for the next few hours as he waits for 2.45 to roll around. He can't concentrate and when he tries, it only lasts a few seconds before his mind is spiralling, falling into an abyss of _what ifs. _He can't think long enough to decide if he wants to take Lydia with him or whether her blunt approach would be helpful or heartbreaking in such a situation.

He decides to go alone, and regrets it as soon as he is sitting in the waiting room again, wringing his hands, tapping his feet and observing a revolving cast of characters enter, wait and be called. He distractedly people-watches, desperately battling to occupy his mind with something, anything other than the verdict he was about to receive. When his name is finally called, he follows without thinking, numb with terror.

Stiles is sitting in the doctor's office, and for once he doesn't feel the urge to speak, to fill the silence while she finds his profile on his computer. His mouth feels glued shut, his throat constricted and his lungs compressed. He's thinking of millions of other things when she begins speaking and he can tell from her expression that it's bad news and she says a word that he can't process but he knows it's bad because his heart shudders and it's a word that begins with _l _and ends in _emia _and he has to stutter, "can you repeat that please?" and the words are staccato and feel solid as they pass his turgid, uncooperative lips.

"Leukemia."

Stiles sits dazed as she explains _treatment _and _side effects _and _support. _Afterwards, he sits outside the clinic for what feels like hours before he feels ready to call Lydia. He can't begin to put into words what is happening, but she seems to understand and picks him up ten minutes later.


End file.
